


Sweet Life

by marysutherland



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-12
Updated: 2011-12-12
Packaged: 2017-10-27 06:03:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/292417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marysutherland/pseuds/marysutherland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft finds it hard to admit to his weaknesses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet Life

**Author's Note:**

> Summary: a long time ago [Pudupudu](http://pudupudu.livejournal.com/) was wanting someone to hurt Mycroft. I'm not very good at hurting him, but I thought I'd have a try. Betaed, yet again, by the indefatigable [Blooms84.](http://archiveofourown.org/users/blooms84/pseuds/blooms84)

Among the perennial contests in Lestrade's head - Depp or De Caprio as preferred shag; Gloria Gaynor or Kylie; whether Anderson was more disturbing with or without the beard – there had been a recurrent one in the last eighteen months: _Which Holmes was more annoying?_   An obvious conclusion at first glance. Sherlock was a menace in every possible way. Working with him was a nightmare, and the one time Lestrade had ended up in bed with him had been worse. Lestrade hadn't been told so many times he was getting things completely wrong since he was last forced to learn trigonometry. He still regretted sometimes that he hadn't reacted in the same way as when he was fifteen: bunked off shagging Sherlock halfway through, and gone and had a ciggie behind the bike shed instead. Would have been a lot more satisfying.

When he'd finally met Mycroft, on the other hand, after years of hearing Sherlock complaining about him, he was not only posh, as Lestrade had expected, but had nice manners. And wasn't bad-looking, in a terribly starchy upper-class way. Lestrade had known a lot of public schoolboys like that when he was a teenager, who had turned out to be pleasantly randy little buggers underneath their fancy waistcoats. And quite a few more recently who only had to see a piece of rough like him to remember that aspect of themselves and be gagging for it again. Or gagging _on_ it sometimes.

But ten minutes into their first meeting, he'd decided that whatever Mycroft's tastes were, he wasn't going near him. He didn't juggle razor blades for fun. There were entire conversations they had which Lestrade had only realised the point of days later. There was always an angle with Mycroft, a whole sodding angleload of angles. It was like being a pawn in some game, associating with him. No, probably more like being a poker chip; and he wasn't interested in finding out if Mycroft was bluffing. Mycroft Holmes might seem friendly, might even sometimes behave as if he _liked_ Lestrade, but it was all just part of some complex attritional game with the world. Or with his brother, which was even bloody worse. And right now he seemed to be caught in the crossfire of another round in Holmes v Holmes. It was the only explanation, surely, for the Great Doughnut Fiasco of last month.

***

The case had started with a complaint about chapati flour, and ended up twenty-nine frantic hours later with a rather inept would-be suicide bomber besieged in a brewery. Mycroft had turned up halfway through the siege, which had stunned Lestrade. Everyone knew that Mycroft stayed away from the operational end of things, hated 'legwork' of any kind. It wasn't even as if his brother was around, which was the main reason Lestrade had known for Mycroft to leave his office and slum it with the police; Sherlock had lost interest in the case and buggered off as soon as he'd deduced the bomber's real identity.

Still, the man had been quite reasonable to start with: not trying to barge in and take over the incident, and even making a few helpful suggestions. But when they'd finally collared the terrorist - alive if soaked -  Mycroft had then gone and spoiled Lestrade's increasingly positive impression of him as the more sane Holmes in a couple of sentences:

"Well that was exciting, DI Lestrade, but I have one more request before I head off. Do you think you could briefly fill me in on more of the background of the case, how you got onto the man initially?"

Lestrade had bitten back his first comment about where Mr Holmes could stick his sodding request, and not bothering to stifle a yawn, said: "Gimme a cup of coffee and I'm all yours."

Mycroft's eyes widened. He expected manners at this point, did he, Lestrade thought incredulously. "OK, make that a gallon of coffee, _please_."

Next thing he knew, they were in some kind of posh tearoom – he wasn't even sure it was officially open, who had afternoon tea at 8.30 am? And he was gulping down scalding coffee, trying to get enough caffeine in his system so that he could come up with statements more coherent than: "There was this bloke called Yusuf, see? And then there was this other bloke called Yusuf. And then this third bloke came along..."

It was all going OK – well as OK as a meeting with the cleverest man in London was likely to go when you were half out of it from exhaustion – till the doughnuts. As soon as Lestrade smelled them he remembered that he hadn't eaten for hours, if not years. To hell with all the fancy cakes in the shop; he wanted these. The proper old-fashioned jam doughnuts he'd had as a kid.

"Can we have a plate of those, please?" he'd said, and they'd brought them over, still warm. He could feel his arteries hardening as he started shovelling them down, but he didn't care. Licking the trickle of jam off his chin, feeling the gritty sugar coat his fingers, because he was still alive and so was everybody else in London, and it was safe to go home and sleep again.

Mycroft was staring at him like he was watching some sort of freak show, he realised after a bit. Watching every bite Lestrade took intently, while he clutched the cappuccino he'd been sipping delicately. _Why the fuck doesn't he feel anything,_ Lestrade thought. _Can't he ever let go, unwind?_ You had to after a situation like this morning. He bet half of the officers at the siege would end up getting drunk and having dodgy sex in the next twenty-four hours. Always been his preferred way of getting over stressful cases when he was younger. Maybe he should have suggested _that_ to Mycroft rather than coffee? Almost worth it, just to see his face. God, he was out of it, wasn't it? But the thing was, if you didn't let go sometimes, the stress got to you in the end. You gave yourself ulcers or a heart attack.

Talking of which, there was still one doughnut left on the plate, and even his stomach was starting to protest at how much he'd eaten.

"Have a doughnut, Mr Holmes," he said.

"No, thank you, Inspector," The clipped tones needled at Lestrade's tired brain.

"Why not?"

"I don't like sweet things."

He was lying, Lestrade was sure. He licked at his sticky thumb and Mycroft practically drooled in response.

"Yes you do, _Mycroft_ ," Lestrade said. "You want it, don't you?"

"I have to be very careful about what I eat, make sure I stick to a healthy diet," Mycroft said, and there was real tension in his voice now, as if he was about to split open. Maybe there'd  be jam pouring out of him as well, not real blood...

"Forget the diet for once. It's one doughnut. Eat the sodding thing!" He didn't know why he was yelling at Mycroft, why it mattered, but it did...And then he got up and stomped out of the tea-room because if he'd stayed there one second more he'd have rammed the doughnut down that posh idiot's throat. He went home and went to bed, and woke up to conclude that he'd probably been hallucinating the entire thing on some caffeine and sugar overload.

***

Three weeks later he got lumbered with the undercover operation from hell. He didn't like that kind of thing at the best of times – he was quite happy sticking with being Greg Lestrade, thank you – and this was rapidly turning into the worst of times. All the informant had revealed was that an attempt would be made on the Slindon diamonds at the Countess of Slindon's birthday party. A party so upmarket that it was absolutely unacceptable that even a disguised Lestrade could attend as a guest.

"Fine," he'd told the Commissioner. "There must be a bloody peer of the realm lurking somewhere in the Met. They can deal with it."

It turned out that DI Jones was the Right Honourable Athelney Jones and had been to school with the Earl of Slindon's son. But of course, that didn't let Lestrade off the hook, he didn't have that kind of luck. He was still on the case as well. Probably so that if everything went tits-up, the Commissioner had someone to blame who wasn't an Old Etonian. So here he was, dressed up as a waiter and about to make an idiot of himself. Under the watchful eye of Sherlock, of course, who was blue-blooded enough to be attending the party officially. And who was now expertly critiquing Lestrade's performance as he helped get things ready at Tarrant Hall.

"The best waiters are invisible," Sherlock announced, loading more glasses onto the tray Lestrade was struggling to keep steady.

"Sorry, didn't bring my magic cloak with me."

"I mean that they are unobtrusive. Generic, even. The guests see a waiter, not an individual. You're still exuding too much personality. Mainly of the sulky bear kind. Try and look a bit more as if you take professional pride in serving over-elaborate snacks to pretentious morons."

"You're not helping!"

"Or maybe you should just cultivate an air of glassy disdain. You know, like Mycroft's 'I may have a poker up my arse, but it's a solid gold poker' look."

"Just because your brother's got some manners, there's no need to sneer at him-" Lestrade began.

"Curious how defensive you are of him when he's criticised," Sherlock broke in. "As is he of you. I called you an inefficient ignoramus last week and he said, no, you were an excellent officer with very good negotiating skills."

It was surprisingly pleasing that he'd impressed Mycroft, despite the subsequent disaster. But he didn't have time to think about that now, might distract him from the current operation.

"I don't want to talk about your brother, thank you very much," he said rapidly. "I have enough on my plate dealing with you.  Quite literally. Careful, I can't carry any more than that!" God, this was a disaster waiting to happen, wasn't it? If only John was here as Sherlock's minder-

"John's foot's still not healed," Sherlock said, with exasperation. Trust Sherlock to guess what Lestrade was thinking. Or maybe it was just that Sherlock spent a lot of time thinking about John nowadays.

"And for once," Lestrade replied, "he's behaving like a sensible doctor, not a crazy ex-soldier and decided he's not going to rush around, making it worse. Surprised you're not at home looking after him."

"He's a grown man," Sherlock said haughtily, "and he has Mrs Hudson and Sarah both waiting on him hand and broken metatarsal. They seem to think he needs looking after _properly_."

For a moment Lestrade was tempted to laugh, and then he realised what he'd got himself into. Second in charge of an undercover op, and a pissed-off consulting detective to keep under control. The question wasn't whether something would go wrong, but when. Still, he could just about manage Sherlock...

"Good evening, Inspector," said a smooth voice behind him. "I must say I'm looking forward to this party. I don't get out much these days. And you do look commendably like a waiter. Well, from the ankles up at least. A bit more elbow grease on your shoes might not have come amiss."

Oh, fuck. This couldn't be happening, not twice in a month. He couldn't have got landed with Mycroft Holmes on an operation again, could he? His brain couldn't cope with the extra complications. Especially the fact that a dinner jacket _suited_ Mycroft, made him look almost dashing.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock demanded.

"I thought you might require additional assistance, so I obtained an invitation," Mycroft replied calmly. He beamed at Lestrade. "Not that I plan to interfere, of course, DI Lestrade."

"Jones is in charge of this one," he said hastily.

"You're interfering already!" Sherlock protested, staring sulkily at his brother.

"I am merely an observer. I'm always interested to see the Met in action, and this seemed like a good opportunity, congenial surroundings."

"You know you don't like _parties_ ," Sherlock said. It was going to be one of those rows, wasn't it, thought Lestrade. All done in code, so you knew they were trying to score off one another, but not how. He wished they could either have subtitles for non-Holmeses or not feel the need for an audience.

"A man can change his preferences, can't he?" Mycroft said. "Learn to appreciate new experiences."

"I think you should stick to your routine. It's better for you."

"My life needn't be so restricted as it has been."

"But it needs to stay balanced. Let's face it, Mycroft, you can't cope with situations like these. They always disrupt your...eating habits."

 _Oh, bloody hell_ , thought Lestrade. If Sherlock was starting needling Mycroft about his diet, this was going to get really ugly.

"You two sort it out between you," he said, "I've got to go and find where they want the canapés." He hurried off to the kitchen. What was Mycroft doing here? It must be some warped power game going on. The fact that he couldn't make head nor tail of it just proved how warped it was. Well, forget about Mycroft. He had a jewel heist to worry about.  He hurried off to the kitchen. If he could just stay out of the way of both Holmeses, things would be fine.

***

Of course, it turned out that he couldn't. Tarrant Hall was full of people rushing around trying to get things sorted out for the evening, from some hapless bloke who insisted he had to read the electricity meter right this minute to half a string quartet. In the midst of it all, Sherlock was buzzing round disrupting things, and even Mycroft found excuses every now and then to wander out to the garden and watch Jones and Lestrade trying to sort out their officers. Probably thinking he could organise the security much better, Lestrade thought grumpily. But they weren't being allowed enough people at the party itself, so they were just going to have to hope they could stop any dodgy customers as they came in. At least Mycroft was potentially another pair of eyes on the inside, though it was probably far too much effort on his part for him to help catch anyone.

Lestrade went back inside just before seven, because there were plateloads of stuff still to take through into the Great Hall, where the buffet would be. And the first guests were starting to arrive, so he had to try and look vaguely convincing as a waiter. He was cautiously carrying a large trayload of smoked salmon blinis down one of the corridors, when he saw a suspicious figure out of the corner of his eye. A tall man standing by the coat racks: something nervous, wrong about him. Lestrade looked surreptitiously around as he pretended to adjust the balance of the tray. Mycroft with his back turned, jacket off, rapidly rolling up one shirt-sleeve, his other hand holding something that to Lestrade's sharp eyes had the exact glint of a needle tip. He hurried away, hoping Mycroft hadn't spotted _him_.

It didn't make any kind of sense to him, but he wasn't a Machiavellian genius. Just possible it hadn't been a syringe, but there'd been something furtive in Mycroft's stance, he realised now. Maybe that was why he wasn't supposed to go to parties: because he got high at them. Mycroft's own way of coping with stress, perhaps, though it made all his complaints about Sherlock's drug-taking past seem pretty hypocritical.

Unless it was a very recent problem. Had Mycroft been behaving differently recently? Well, he'd started coming round to New Scotland Yard to talk to Lestrade more, for one thing...Oh _fuck_ , that was probably it. It wasn't that Mycroft was interested in him, which was what had crossed his mind once or twice. It was that Mycroft subconsciously wanted to get caught. Knew he needed help, but not prepared to admit it directly. The stupid, bloody idiot.

It couldn't be easy, of course, being the British government _and_ Sherlock's brother. Not Lestrade's problem though, at least not tonight. He ought to say something at some point, see if Mycroft needed help getting clean. But the key thing right now was the party. That was likely to be enough of a disaster as it was.

***

Lestrade decided after a couple of hours that if he did get chucked out of the Met – and there was probably a decent chance of that after tonight – he wasn't going to go into the catering trade. His feet hadn't ached since so much since he'd been walking a beat, he had a headache from the noise, and the urge to start a revolution from the rudeness of some of the guests. He was feeling sweaty and dishevelled, and if anyone else complained about the champagne being second-rate, he was going to give them an earful. Why the hell couldn't someone try and steal all the jewellery on display? It'd make the party a bloody sight more interesting.

Lady Slindon was beckoning him over now: he hoped his supposed employer wasn't going to comment on the state of his shoes as well. She'd already confiscated his mobile; the catering staff weren't allowed to carry them, apparently. Probably in case they started taking photos of how dishonourably some of the Right Honourables were behaving, Lestrade thought mutinously.

"There seems to be some little local difficulty over by the Watteau," Lady Slindon announced. Lestrade waited, looking blank.

"The painting of the minstrel in red, over in the far corner," she said, looking crossly up at him. "There's rather a commotion, and I'm afraid some of my guests may be getting a little...excited."

"Someone blotto by the Watteau," he couldn't help muttering, and then hastily added. "I'll go and check, my lady." He wasn't quite sure what he could do, but this might be something kicking off. Decoy manoeuvre for the jewel raid, perhaps? Or just some twit who didn't mind that the champagne wasn't vintage enough?

The countess was right, he decided, as he tried to shove his way politely through the crowd.  There wasn't just the normal upper-class bray coming from that corner, but something more, someone losing their temper. And as he approached, a familiar voice announced rather too loudly: "You know nothing about the matter, and I suggest you keep your opinions to yourself."

Mycroft's voice, not Sherlock's, but it was probably Sherlock winding Mycroft up. What the fuck were those two idiots playing at? But though he could see Mycroft's long, smooth back now, there was no trace of Sherlock. Could Mycroft be quarrelling with someone else? Didn't seem plausible.

But when Lestrade got really close, it made more sense, because Mycroft was drunk. Gestures slightly too big, speech a bit blurred, eyes not quite focusing on the man he was berating. How the hell had he got sozzled so quickly? Oh, sod it - because of the drugs he'd taken _before_ he started drinking. And it looked like Mycroft was an aggressive drunk: he'd started on some new victim now, demanding their views on Mexican politics in a rather menacing way. It was going to blow Lestrade's cover, but he'd better get him somewhere safe before he started breaching the Official Secrets Act.

Or before Mycroft ended up doing something really stupid in public. He had to help him avoid that. The poor sod was going to be embarrassed enough about this afterwards as it was; Sherlock would probably be teasing him for months.

"Mycroft," he said, reaching out, and firmly taking his arm. "It's Greg Lestrade. I need to talk to you, so can you just come with me for a minute?"

Mycroft turned slowly and peered down his nose at Lestrade. _Is he going to turn nasty, try and take a swing at me?_ _Am I just going to make things worse?_ But then Mycroft seemed to recognise him, and gave a slightly vacant smile.

"I'd be delighted to," he said, and let Lestrade start to steer him across the crowded room. If they could just get outside, he could find someone to look after Mycroft, take him home. Ought to see if there was anything else _he_ could do to help, later on. He'd have to be tactful about that, though; it'd probably be quite hard for Mycroft to admit he had problems, when he was so used to being in control of himself.

God, Mycroft was sweating, wasn't he? Not surprising, the room was boiling, but he looked very pale, and he was definitely wobbly. Lestrade hoped he wasn't going to start throwing up. His pupils were dilated as well: what the hell could he be on, and should he be getting him to hospital? If he could only find Sherlock; he'd be sure to know what his brother's habit was.

As if in answer to that thought, he spotted a tall, dark figure slipping his way through knots of people and heading his way, lithe body almost dancing through gaps. Sherlock had a broad grin on his face as he arrived next to Lestrade.

"Where've you been, Lestrade?" he demanded. "The balloon goes up in seven minutes and Jones wants you in place."

"What?"

"Didn't you get his message? The raid's at 9.20, and it's 9.13 now."

"Go away, Sherlock!" Mycroft announced. "I'm having a private conversation with Greg."

Sherlock's eyes flicked up and down his brother contemptuously.

"You idiot, Mycroft. I told you this might happen if you came."

"What's he on?" Lestrade demanded.

"Insulin. He's diabetic and he's having a hypoglycaemic episode. Needs some sugar." Sherlock whirled round back into the crowd, and reappeared a few moments later clutching a silver tray loaded with raspberry tartlets. But as he tried to cram one into Mycroft's mouth, his brother lashed out, his fist crashing clumsily into the tray, scattering the pastries onto protesting guests.

"Keep him away from me!" Mycroft yelled.

"It's OK, Mycroft," Lestrade said soothingly, taking his arm again. "Come over here and sit down. Sherlock, grab some fruit juice, it'll be easier to get that down him."

By the time Sherlock returned, Lestrade had Mycroft deposited in a chair at the side of the room. He should have thought of diabetes, he told himself furiously, they always used to warn you to look for that if you were arresting someone for being drunk and disorderly. He grabbed the glass of orange juice that Sherlock thrust at him. _Gently does it now, Mycroft's not himself._ He firmly squashed the thought that said that was a good thing, bent down to put his arm round Mycroft's shoulder and then held the glass to his lips.

"You're having a hypo, so I'm giving you some fruit juice," he said as reassuringly as he could. "Drink some of it please, Mycroft, you'll feel a lot better." Mycroft obediently swallowed; the juice was mostly going in, Lestrade thought.

"Four minutes till kick-off time," Sherlock announced.

"I'm staying with Mycroft, Sherlock, tell DI Jones that." He wasn't leaving the British government collapsed in a sweaty heap. More to the point, he wasn't leaving _Mycroft_ like this.

"They may need you."

"So does Mycroft and he's more important." He handed the empty glass to Sherlock, as if _he_ were the waiter, and turned back to Mycroft, gave his shoulder a squeeze. God, he still looked terrible, he thought.

"OK," he said, as Sherlock slid away. "Just sit here for a bit till you feel better. Is there anything else you need?"

"I...I'm fine," Mycroft said unconvincingly. "If you have to go..."

"I don't. How are you feeling?"

"Still a little...hazy. But I'll be all right in a couple of minutes, now I've had a drink."

"No hurry," said Lestrade. And then all the lights went out.

A woman started to scream in the pitch dark, and Lestrade could feel Mycroft's body shaking, near panic from the hypo and the disorientation. He crouched down beside the chair and grabbed for Mycroft's hand. He accidentally groped his thigh – more muscle there than expected, his fingers abruptly registered - and then managed to find the clammy fingers, grip onto them. Mycroft's breath was harsh as Lestrade wrapped himself round him, willing him to calm.

"Stay still, you're safe. You're not having a blackout, there's been a power cut. Don't try and move, you'll trip over someone. Just keep listening to me, I'm here with you."

The screaming stopped abruptly as a man's voice rang through the hall, gloriously confident:

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is Lord Slindon. I'm afraid that the Tarrant Hall wiring has let us down yet again, and we seem to have blown a fuse. So if everyone just stays where they are, we'll get some torches, and then take you all out into the garden instead, which is looking very lovely in the moonlight. But it'll take us a little while, so please bear with us. We'll need to escort you out a few at a time, to avoid any accidents."

There was a moment's quiet when the announcement ended and then the hubbub of normal conversation resuming. The spirit of the blackout, if not the Blitz. A few small pools of light from pen torches and mobile phones emerging. Shouldn't have stopped smoking, Lestrade thought, or I'd have had a lighter on me.

Mycroft's fingers were crushing Lestrade's hand now, and he heard him mutter something.

"What is it?" Lestrade asked.

"You said you'd stay with me, DI...Greg."

"Of course."

"I think you need to...reconsider your decision, I'm almost sure that wasn't Lord Slindon's voice just now."

"Oh fuck, the raid. The lights go out and then they grab...no, that doesn't make sense."

"The lights go out," Mycroft replied slowly and carefully, "and then people get escorted out one by one-"

"So that they can pick out anyone with valuable stuff on them, take them off somewhere, and they probably won't be missed for a while. Sod it, that's neat."

"You need to stop them," Mycroft said, his hand pulling away from Lestrade's.

"There's a dozen coppers and Sherlock out there," Lestrade replied. "There's just me in here to protect you. Most important man in Britain, I'd say. I'm not budging."

"Thank you, Greg," Mycroft breathed, and there was something trusting in his voice that ricocheted through Lestrade's body. _Oh fuck_ , he thought, _what a time to realise just what he does to me_. But then he felt Mycroft's hand reaching up to brush his cheek, the shift of weight as Mycroft's body relaxed into Lestrade's encircling arm. Maybe it was the right time after all. A silent moment of connection, warmth, before the next hurdle to be faced.

***

"You're sure you feeling OK?" Lestrade couldn't help asking after a minute or two, his grip tightening slightly round Mycroft, holding him closer.

"Fine," Mycroft said softly. "I'm sorry for distracting you from your operation."

"It's OK. You couldn't help it." _Just like I can't help this, whatever happens later_.

"It's not the first time this has happened," Mycroft said. "I...I mean the hypoglycaemia. I try and keep my blood sugar levels tightly controlled, but occasionally I miscalculate."

 _You try and keep_ everything _under tight control_ , Lestrade thought, _and look what a miscalculation that's been_.

"Is this something recent?" he asked.

"I've had diabetes for years, since I was a child. It's just...I haven't told many people about it."

 _Because you'd rather be thought a toffee-nosed doughnut-rejecting git than show anything that might appear to be a weakness. Typical Holmes_.

"I can keep my trap shut," Lestrade said. "But next time-"

"There may not be a next time," Mycroft replied quietly.

"What the fuck?"

"I didn't mean it like that, Greg." There was a taut control in Mycroft's voice now. "But there is someone with a powerful torch who's been standing at the door for a while and is now heading right this way. There is a small but non-zero possibility that they're looking for me, and that this is more than a simple robbery. It's the other reason I so seldom attend parties."

"Someone may be out to get you?"

"Perhaps quite literally. I'm fairly sure it's only one person, so if you move away you'll be out of the danger zone."

"I'm not going anywhere," said Lestrade. "We're in this together." One man, but probably armed. And if a gun went off in this crowded room, there'd be a stampede and someone would get killed. Probably best not to mention that to Mycroft.

"Are you OK to walk?" he added. "Not too shaky?"

"I'm almost back to normal. Well, my blood sugar levels, at any rate."

"Then stand up and hang onto me, because if we get separated, we may not be able to find each other again. Let me do the talking, and I swear I'll get us out of this safely." Mycroft probably knew that was complete bullshit, but his sweaty palm slipped confidently into Lestrade's hand.

Was this the right tactic, Lestrade wondered as the bloke with the torch got nearer. The primitive urge to run, to hide was screaming through him. He realised he was pressing his hip almost automatically against Mycroft's side; if the shooting started, he could knock Mycroft on the floor and then pile on top to protect him. Don't be stupid, he told himself. If someone fires at this range, neither of us has a ghost of a chance.

The torch swept across the wall beside them and he fought not to close his eyes, because if he couldn't see them, they couldn't see him. And now the beam was turning towards them...

"You OK, sir?" said Sally Donovan.

Lestrade let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.

"Sally!" he croaked. "Good to see you."

"You got the...erm, Mr Holmes with you?"

"Good evening, Sergeant Donovan," Mycroft said, sounding staggeringly composed. "I take it things are now under control."

"Yeah. Come with me, and we'll get you out of here." They followed cautiously through the crowd.

"Sorry for the delay," Sally said. "We had to make sure we'd collared them all. Excuse me, please, madam, can we get through here? We're bringing lights in right now, everyone can leave soon."

As they neared the doors of the hall, Mycroft's hand pulled away from Lestrade's.

"You OK?" Lestrade murmured.

"If you could give me a moment please, Inspector, I'm still a little wobbly."

"Got some paramedics if you need then," Sally said. "The Freak...Sherlock said you'd been taken ill."

"Just a little overcome with the heat," said Mycroft. "If DI Lestrade could give me a hand, it'd be helpful. I don't want to trip over anything in the dark."

Lestrade slung his arm round Mycroft's back in a way he hoped looked more 'helpful bloke' than 'secretly wants to touch up this man's arse', and they went on.

"It all went smoothly, did it, Sally?" he asked, as they walked along seemingly endless corridors.

"Worked like a dream once the Freak spotted that the meter reader was bogus, and realised that he'd put a detonator in the fuse box. The thing was timed to blow at 9.20, so when a bunch of extra catering staff arrived at quarter past nine, we just had to arrest them. We knew they had an inside man as well, so we let him do the announcement in the hall, and then grabbed him."

"Who was that?"

"The butler, I presume," Mycroft broke in. "It almost always is."

"Yeah," Sally replied. "DI Jones and the others are processing the gang now. You'd have been proud how slick the arrests were, sir."

"Sorry I missed out," said Lestrade.

"Sherlock said he was keeping you informed, but I might have known he'd foul things up."

"It was really my fault for complicating the matter," Mycroft said, as they emerged into the moonlit calm of the garden.

"Not your fault," Lestrade replied. "I'll take you home now, unless there's anything else I need to sort out here."

Sally was looking up at him curiously, he realised, and Mycroft's breathing suddenly seemed louder.

"I don't need..." said Mycroft, and then suddenly stopped, looking down at the ground. Lestrade's hand automatically dropped away from his back. _You don't need my help. Or at least you do, but you can't stand to take it. So you're going to push me away again, you sodding bastard, despite what happened tonight. Because of what happened tonight._

"I don't need to say," Mycroft said at last, very slowly and distinctly, "how grateful I am to the Met for tonight's work. Both for the smooth running of this operation under very difficult circumstances and for the care taken of me when I became unwell. All most commendable. If you were able to accompany me, Inspector Lestrade, we could, erm, discuss the possible security implications of Lord Slindon's butler having criminal connections."

"We can wrap up things here, sir," said Sally cheerily. "No need to come back after you've dropped Mr Holmes off. You can go straight to bed."

 _Oh fuck_ , thought Lestrade, it was that bloody obvious, was it?

"OK Sally," he said. "See you tomorrow." As she went back inside, he turned to look at Mycroft. God only knew if it was medically advisable for him to have a shag tonight, but you had to unwind after a situation like tonight's _somehow_. Mycroft's face was unreadable in the dim light, and Lestrade felt sudden uncertainty. Had Mycroft meant what he thought he'd meant?

And then Mycroft put out his hand tentatively and took Lestrade's. "I suppose," he said, "I should have revealed some of my weaknesses before."

"Don't worry, Mycroft," said Lestrade, just before their lips met. "You may still have to stay clear of the doughnuts, but no-one's ever thought that I'm too sweet."


End file.
